sparrowdox

Back in Seattle I used to live with about five strangers I had literally met on the street. I had been working for a charity, harassing strangers for their hard-earned cash. It must have been a slow day, for I approached Peter despite a strict personal rule against approaching hippies. Hippies are the enemy of the charity worker. They will suck you into a philosophical debate, tell you amazing things about life and anthropology and blow hash in your face, then wander off without handing over a single penny. Peter was not Peter's real name. I don't remember any of their names; I remember smells and fabric patterns and associations. Peter had

He hated the sunny weather. He wanted to be miserable in peace, preferably shivering in torrential rain as if the gods themselves seemed to curse his pitiful existence. He didn't even bring sunglasses. This man, sitting grumpily on a rock, with the salty waves peacefully licking at the toes that peeked out from his sandals, had been there for two days. That's two days without food and water, and not much sleep. Once he dozed off, but was rudely jolted out of some inane dream when one of his legs slipped off the rock and fell in the cold night water. The thought was creeping up on him, pressing onto the back of his mind, dangerously close to

As the snow drifts down The winds remind me of you Lovers torn apart

This was back in the day, when boys would get tangled in the tape from music cassettes as they frantically tried to record foreign rock music from banned radio stations. The entire city was traversed by a complicated network of tram lines. The trams were always yellow, with a white roof and white underbelly. They slugged through the streets like giant bugs, long twiggy antennae sending sparks off the electric lines. City gardeners would plant tuft between the tracks, and daisies would grow intermittently across them. As trams don't run on gasoline there was nothing to damage the tracks and the grass was always the colour of ripe Granny Smith

She sits, straight backed and shivering, at a dimly lit table. She cradles a cup of coffee in one hand, the smell of caffeine permeating her head, making her dizzy and messing with her thoughts. Her fingertips rest on a sheet of paper. She strokes the words, carefully touching every line as she reads it, as if it were braille, as if touching it would make the words make more sense. She rubs her eyes and smears her mascara: panda eyes. She puts the cup down and shuffles her papers. She takes a sip of coffee and leans back on her chair. She thinks about the stories Helen told her, the ghost stories. The way she told them as if she believed eve

Later, when asked, he could not have told you what happened, or why he'd done it. The decision was automatic, uncontrollable, like the beating of a heart or the changing of the seasons. The first time it happened was deep at night. He sat at his desk, hunched over, trying to stop the small print stop dancing around the page as he tried reading it. He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. He scratched his ear. He put his glasses back on and tried to read again. The entire surface of the table was covered in books, drawings, papers and notes. It was as though a tornado had plundered a library and vomited its contents on the architect's tin

Fifty bucks can buy you sex Four buttons undone, polished blond hair A kiss with eyes open, Hand held with contempt Sigh faked out of duty What can you do with this beauty? When passion is a business deal You can't believe that love is real. Take seven roses, buy some lust. The same cheap deal, financial steal (But with a bit more class) Four buttons undone at the end of a date A good-night kiss For your virginal miss It's good in terms of to-day No-one has feelings anyway. But take two words, A butterfly kiss, romantic bliss, When she takes off her coat, Eyes lined and lipstick mauve Removes the bracelets and the gloves